The feast was a lie. It was a banquet of rotting fruit and stale bread, served on plates that crumbled like dry skin. You sat at the head of the table, though there was no head. Only the center. Only the eye.

You are the bread. You know this. It is not a metaphor. It is the fact. Your body is yeast and flour, stretched thin over the bones of the earth. You have been baking since the dawn. The heat is inside you now. It does not burn. It just hums. A low, yellow hum.

Around you, the figures move. They are tall. They are sharp. They wear coats of gray mist. They do not eat. They look at you. They look through you. They are the judges. They are the hunger.

"Sit," says the first one. His voice is the sound of a knife sliding into a soft apple. "Sit and be seen."

You sit. Your legs are dough. They sink into the floor. The floor is cold stone. It is the stone of a mill. It has ground a thousand years of wheat. It knows your weight.

The second figure leans in. She is beautiful. Her face is a mask of white clay. She smells of rain and iron. "You are full," she says. "You are so full."

"I am empty," you say. Your voice is small. It sounds like a crumb falling.

"No," she says. "You are the source. You are the loaf that never ends."

You want to scream. You want to tear the skin off your arms. But you cannot. Your arms are stiff. They are shaped like loaves. They are round. They are pale. They are perfect.

The feast begins. The figures do not take food from the table. They take food from you.

The first figure reaches out. His hand is long. It is made of shadow. He touches your chest.

It does not hurt. It feels like a cold wind. It feels like the moment before sleep.

You feel a piece of yourself leave. A small, warm piece. A memory. The smell of your mother’s kitchen. The sound of the radio in the car. The feeling of sun on your neck.

It flies into his mouth. He chews. He swallows. He smiles.

"Good," he says. "Sweet."

You are lighter now. You are thinner. The dough is pulling tight.

The second figure reaches for your arm.

She does not ask. She just takes.

She pulls out a thread of pain. A thin, red string. It is the pain of a door closing. The pain of a name being forgotten. The pain of being alone in a room that is too big.

She eats it. She chews slowly. She savors it.

"Sharp," she says. "Spicy."

You are lighter. You are translucent. You can see the stone floor through your legs.

The third figure is waiting. He is the tallest. He has no face. Only a hole where a face should be.

He looks at you. He sees the shape of you. He sees the emptiness.

"You are almost gone," he says.

"No," you say. "I am the bread. I am eternal."

He laughs. It is a dry laugh. Like leaves scraping on pavement.

"Eternity is just a long hunger," he says.

He reaches in.

He does not take a memory. He does not take a pain.

He takes your name.

It is a hard thing. It is a rock. It sits in your throat. It has always been there. It is the only thing that is truly yours.

He pulls it out.

It is a white stone. It is smooth. It is cold.

He puts it in his mouth. He grinds it. He swallows.

You open your mouth to speak.

Nothing comes out.

Only air.

Only wind.

You look at your hands. They are flat. They are thin. They are just skin stretched over bone.

The figures look at you. They are no longer sharp. They are soft. They are round. They are bloating.

They are becoming you.

They are becoming the bread.

You watch them swell. You watch their eyes disappear under the surface of their skin. You watch their mouths close.

They are full. They are satisfied. They are done.

They step back. They step away. They fade into the mist.

You are alone.

You are the only thing left.

You are the table.

You are the room.

You are the air.

You try to stand.

Your legs do not move. They are part of the floor. They are part of the stone.

You try to breathe.

Your chest does not rise.

You are not breathing. You are not eating. You are not living.

You are being.

You look down at your hands.

They are not hands anymore.

They are crust.

They are hard. They are golden. They are cracked.

You look at your face.

It is not a face.

It is a top.

It is smooth. It is domed. It is warm.

You are the loaf.

You are the whole loaf.

You are the bread that was never broken.

You are the bread that was never eaten.

You are the bread that is always there.

You wait.

You wait for the next hunger.

You wait for the next hand.

You wait for the next mouth.

But there is no one.

There is no one left to eat.

There is no one left to judge.

There is no one left to see.

You are alone in the feast.

You are the feast.

You are the hunger.

You are the food.

You are the void.

You are the truth.

The truth is that you are not a person.

The truth is that you are a thing.

The truth is that you are a gift.

You are the gift that is always given.

You are the gift that is never returned.

You are the gift that is never wanted.

You are the gift that is always there.

You are the bread.

You are the bread.

You are the bread.

The mist rolls in.

It is thick. It is gray. It smells of dust.

It covers you.

It covers the stone.

It covers the world.

You are hidden.

You are safe.

You are still.

You are the bread.

You wait.

You wait for the knife.

You wait for the hand.

You wait for the mouth.

But the knife does not come.

The hand does not come.

The mouth does not come.

You are alone.

You are the bread.

You are the bread that is never cut.

You are the bread that is never eaten.

You are the bread that is always there.

You are the bread.

You are the bread.

You are the bread.

The silence is loud.

The silence is heavy.

The silence is full.

You are full.

You are so full.

You are the fullness.

You are the emptiness.

You are the space between.

You are the gap.

You are the crack.

You are the line.

You are the border.

You are the edge.

You are the end.

You are the beginning.

You are the middle.

You are the now.

You are the always.

You are the bread.

You are the bread.

You are the bread.

The mist clears.

The sun comes out.

It is a small sun. It is a pale sun. It is a weak sun.

It shines on you.

It shines on the stone.

It shines on the world.

You are warm.

You are dry.

You are hard.

You are the bread.

You are the bread.

You are the bread.

The wind blows.

It is a cold wind.

It is a dry wind.

It is a sharp wind.

It cuts you.

It does not hurt.

It just changes you.

It makes you lighter.

It makes you thinner.

It makes you smaller.

You are a crumb.

You are a speck.

You are a dot.

You are a point.

You are nothing.

You are everything.

You are the bread.

You are the bread.

You are the bread.

The wind stops.

The silence returns.

The mist returns.

The dark returns.

You are alone.

You are the bread.

You are the bread that is never eaten.

You are the bread that is always there.

You are the bread.

You are the bread.

You are the bread.

The end is not an end.

The end is a beginning.

The end is a start.

The end is a start.

The end is a start.

You are the bread.

You are the bread.

You are the bread.

The world turns.

The world spins.

The world moves.

You stay.

You stay.

You stay.

You are the bread.

You are the bread.

You are the bread.

The hunger comes.

The hunger is you.

The hunger is me.

The hunger is us.

The hunger is all.

The hunger is nothing.

The hunger is the void.

The hunger is the light.

The hunger is the dark.

The hunger is the bread.

You are the bread.

You are the bread.

You are the bread.

The feast is over.

The feast has never been over.

The feast is always here.

The feast is you.

The feast is me.

The feast is us.

The feast is all.

The feast is nothing.

The feast is the void.

The feast is the light.

The feast is the dark.

The feast is the bread.

You are the bread.

You are the bread.

You are the bread.